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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178616">you and me (I'm the knife and you're the tree)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood'>dashwood</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Faculty AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Blow Jobs, Epistolary Elements, Established Relationship, Faculty AU, Flirting, Fluff, Humiliation kink, Humor, M/M, Mention of sex, Missing Scenes, Rivals to Lovers, Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:34:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,066</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178616</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted scenes and prompt fills from the Faculty AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Faculty AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>139</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24646114">you and me (trouble dipped in honey tea)</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood">dashwood</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Since this AU still owns my heart, I thought it would be fun to take some prompts over on my <a href="http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>. I'll try to fill them all in the following days-weeks-months. Bear with me!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>How did Sergio find out they're dating and what was his immediate reaction?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And here I thought you’d appreciate the honesty.” </p>
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>Sergio massaged his temples as he looked at Andrés' smug face. He could feel a headache coming on; an insistent pounding, as though someone were bashing his head in with a hammer. Forcefully and without mercy. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, no. I do,” he said eventually. “Especially since you didn’t deem it necessary to mention it the last time you decided to date someone from the university. A student no less.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“A <em>former</em> student.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sergio ignored him.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am grateful that you were considerate enough to inform me about your, ah...” He trailed off, searching for the right word. Andrés' love affairs had always been a sensible subject. “To inform me about your liaison with another member of staff.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Liaison</em>?” Andrés laughed, dark and bitter. “I don’t think you understand, hermanito. Martín and I aren't merely fucking. It's... much more. We are <em>soulmates</em>." </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sergio wanted to groan. <em>Of course </em>Andrés fancied himself destined to be with Martín. Guided by a higher power – be it fate or the Morai or divine intervention.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Andrés' passion would be enviable if it hadn’t led him down a path of disaster four times already. And each time, Sergio had been forced to pick up the pieces. Oh, never with Andrés, no. None of his divorces had had much of an effect on him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His ex-wives on the other hand... Sergio wasn't sure how each one of them had come to the conclusion that he made for a good shoulder to cry on. Needless to say, he hadn’t enjoyed taking on the role of a human tissue dispenser as he listened to them (rightfully) disparage Andrés' character. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Andrés,” he said, pushing up his glasses. “Are you sure about this?”  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He was aiming for sternness, but his tone came out slightly petulant instead. But oh, it was easy to fall back into old habits when it was just the two of them. It didn’t matter that they were sitting in Sergio’s office, that Andrés had come there in an official capacity – namely, to inform his boss of a workplace affair. Right now, it was just Sergio and his older brother. The realist and the hopeless romantic. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I do not mean to offend you, but you know how you get,” Sergio heaved a sigh, heavy on his tongue. “You’re always quick to fall in love—” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Andrés cut him off. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“None of them were like Martín. It was never like this," he said. He sounded reverent, almost feverish. As if he actually believed in his words rather than repeating empty phrases he had read in one of his novels. “Martín is... exquisite. He knows me so well, as though he was born to be mine. We fit together, like two pieces of an intricate puzzle. Aren’t you happy for me, hermanito?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No. I mean, yes. Of course I am happy for you.” Sergio shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose and decided to head down to the pharmacy as soon as they were done. He needed an aspirin. Or two. Maybe three. “I am glad you found someone.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The silent <em>again</em> lingered in the air between them, unaddressed. Untouched. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It didn’t seem to bother Andrés. He merely smiled at Sergio, every inch the philanthropic older brother, before clapping his hands together and announcing that he had to meet Martín for lunch.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was curious, Sergio thought to himself as he watched Andrés leave. He didn't look any different; there was no spring in his step, no besotted look in his eyes. And yet there seemed to be a sprightliness to him, a joviality that hadn’t been there before...  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Not that it mattered. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sergio <em>knew</em> that Andrés would change his mind sooner or later, just like he did every time he found <em>the one</em>. He only hoped that the fallout wouldn’t be as much of a disaster as he feared. The childish feud between Andrés and Martín had been nerve-wrecking enough. Sergio dreaded to imagine what he’d have to deal with once his brother would inevitably break Martín's heart. </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Their assistants (Ariadna and Alison)'s reactions to the first time they got involved in their interdepartmental war</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ariadna suppressed the urge to squirm in her seat. Señor Fonollosa had been staring at her CV for a solid five minutes now, his eyes narrowing as they roamed over the list of accomplishments. She knew that she was well-suited for the job and that she could take anything he’d throw her way. Knew, too, that she wouldn’t suffer a nervous breakdown like his previous three TAs. </p>
<p>Now she only had to convince Fonollosa of that. To show him that she was the best choice for the job, that she could smile and say <em>of course </em>and <em>thank you </em>and <em>what can I do for you </em>with the best of them.  </p>
<p>If only he wasn’t so damn intimidating. </p>
<p>Ariadna’s heart twisted into a nervous knot when Fonollosa put her CV down at last, fingers smoothing over the paper as though to rid it of invisible wrinkles. </p>
<p>“Señora Cascales,” he said, and Ariadna couldn’t help but think that there was something strangely hypnotizing about his tone. It matched the glint in his eyes, dark and foreboding. Beckoning. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do?” </p>
<p>“Excuse me?!” </p>
<p>A white-hot rush of embarrassment shot through her veins, leaving her flushed and angry, <em>trembling </em>with outrage. Her gaze flew to the sofa in the corner of the room. Until now she hadn’t given any thought to it. She had simply figured that Fonollosa used it for quick naps when he was working late in his art studio. But not... this. That he used it to proposition his students, to seduce them. </p>
<p>Fonollosa didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. He merely gave a noncommittal hum, as nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather.  </p>
<p>“Suppose I’d ask you to pick up a skunk and leave it in the office of a fellow faculty member. Would you do it? Hypothetically speaking, of course.” </p>
<p>“What? I-”  </p>
<p>Ariadna clamped her mouth shut. She could feel the indignation slipping through her fingers, giving way to an overwhelming sense of confusion, of bewilderment. She felt lost, unable to make sense of Fonollosa’s words.</p>
<p>She cleared her throat. And tried again. </p>
<p>“It would probably depend on... I mean, are you talking about a live skunk? Or a dead one?”</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh shoot. Way to go, Ariadna, what a stupid thing to say. </em>
</p>
<p>But to her surprise, Fonollosa didn’t laugh in her face. </p>
<p>“Good point,” he said with a nod of his head, as solemn as if she had just solved a quantum theorem which had perplexed renowned physicists for decades. “I hadn’t even considered a dead one. It would be more of a threat, wouldn’t it? A warning.” </p>
<p>“Uhm, yes. I’d say so.” </p>
<p>“Hmm.” </p>
<p>Fonollosa tapped a finger against his lips – once, twice, thrice – before reaching for his pen and jotting something down on his notepad. His stoic demeanor was completely at odds with the topic of conversation, so much so that it caused Ariadna to glance around the room in search for a hidden camera. Surely this had to be a prank, a tasteless joke. </p>
<p>When he had finished writing, Fonollosa put away his pen and leaned back in his chair. Ariadna couldn’t place her finger on it, but there was something intimidating about his body language, something regal and almost threatening. A mountain lion sprawling on top of a cliff, biding its time. </p>
<p>“I’ll be frank with you,” he said after a moment. Ariadna held her breath. “I’m looking for an assistant who is cunning and wary. Someone who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Who will regard my enemies as their own. Tell me, <em>Ariadna</em>. Are you that someone?”  </p>
<p>Ariadna smiled – too bright and fake – and wondered why it felt as if she had just sold her soul to the devil. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-- </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can change it, if you don’t like it.” </p>
<p>Alison bit the inside of her cheek as she searched Martín's face for any signs that he hated the flyer she had just spent the better part of an hour working on. There was a small crease right between his eyebrows; it was the same expression that washed over his face whenever he was solving a particularly tricky equation. Lost in thought, miles away. </p>
<p>She cleared her throat. </p>
<p>“It’s just a mock-up,” she said, nodding towards the flyer in Martín's hands. “The science fair is still a month away. More than enough time to change the layout around.” </p>
<p>Seconds ticked by. Alison shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Back and forth, and again.  </p>
<p>When Martín spoke at last, his voice was unreadable. </p>
<p>“You’re good with Photoshop.” </p>
<p>“I use it a lot,” Alison said, shrugging her shoulders. “For my fashion blog.” </p>
<p>Martín finally looked up, a dark smile stretching over his lips. It made him look dangerous, like a shark scenting blood in the water. Of course Alison wasn’t scared of him – this was <em>Martín</em>, after all; she was pretty sure that she could take him in a fight, single-armed. But still... she had a bad feeling about this. </p>
<p>"I have a job for you." </p>
<p>"Oh?" </p>
<p>“I need you to design a poster,” Martín said, and Alison sighed in relief. Nothing strange or unusual then, that was good. It had simply been her imagination running wild, how silly of he- “For a dog fighting ring.” </p>
<p>The smile froze on her face. Slipped off and crumbled to the floor like a papier mâché mask.  </p>
<p>“Pardon? A what now?” </p>
<p>“You know,” Martín said, shifting in his seat. His whole body seemed to be buzzing with barely-contained excitement – it made him look like a small boy in a candy shop. Which was probably fucked up, given the subject matter. “It’s like a cock fighting ring but with dogs. Cute, fluffy ones with big eyes. Puppies.” </p>
<p>“Are you-” Alison cut herself off and forced a laugh to dislodge the lump in her throat. But fuck, it was impossible to sound casual about any of this. “Are you hosting these fights? Is it a hobby of yours?” </p>
<p>Martín snorted and threw out his arms as if to say <em>Qué</em><em>? Do you honestly think I could harm a fly, </em><em>cariño</em><em>? </em>He was the perfect picture of innocence, wide-eyed and guiltless. It was fucking ridiculous. </p>
<p>“I don’t,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I have it on good authority that Fonollosa does. Every Friday at 19:00 – no, wait. Make that 22:00. He’s got a lecture until 20:00 – every Friday at 22:00, in his basement. Hang on, I’ve got his address here somewhere... Why aren’t you writing this down?” </p>
<p>“Right, yes.” </p>
<p>Nodding vigorously, Alison grabbed a pen and hastily scribbled Fonollosa’s address onto the back of her hand.  </p>
<p>“Now,” Martín went on, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I want the posters all over campus. In every Starbucks, every bar, every diner. If you can get more than thirty people to show up at his place on Friday night, I’ll convince Sergio to give you a raise. Are you in?” </p>
<p>Alison smiled – too bright and fake – and wondered why it felt as if she had just made a deal with the devil. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Anything Martín POV? Either before or after they get together.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Truthfully, Andrés thought that he could prove an awful lot, but he suspected that dragging Berrote into Sergio’s office by the collar of his hideous leather jacket just to yell J’accuse and point out the suspicious similarities between the sharpie stains on Berrote’s hands and the dicks doodled all over his precious charcoal sketches would probably get Andrés suspended for manhandling a faculty member. Again.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Too far.</p><p>Martín had gone too far this time.</p><p>To be fair, he was still learning the ropes. This whole rivalry business – ridiculous as it may be – was still new to him, unchartered land. It had come with a set of rules which he had yet to discover. </p><p>Exhibit A: Breaking into Fonollosa’s office and defacing his so-called artworks? Fair game.</p><p>Exhibit B: Changing the audio setting on Fonollosa’s laptop so he'd sound like a Chipmunk during his online lectures? A gift that kept on giving – it had been two weeks and so far he hadn’t seemed to notice that anything was off.</p><p>Exhibit C: Hacking into Fonollosa’s e-mail to cancel his classes for the upcoming week because he was going to be a contestant on <em>Drag Race</em>? According to Sergio ‘not nearly as funny as you think it is’, but still not enough to warrant anything more than a reprimanding look and a slap on the wrist. </p><p>But calling the <em>Journal of Visual Culture and Modern Arts</em> to inform them that the article they were planning to publish by one A. d. Fonollosa was lifted verbatim from a student’s thesis?</p><p>Crossing a line, apparently. </p><p>At least if Fonollosa's reaction was anything to go by.</p><p>There were red splotches on his face as he bared his teeth in a vicious snarl, as he called Martín a miserable excuse of a man, as he swore up and down that he'd make him pay.</p><p>Martín didn't mind the harsh insults. He was used to them – envious colleagues, slighted students, his own mother. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before.</p><p>But what Martín <em>wasn’t</em> used to was the manhandling. </p><p>He yelped in surprise when Fonollosa grabbed a fistful of his hair, nails scratching against his scalp, and pushed him up against the wall of his office. </p><p>“You’re going to regret this,” Fonollosa hissed, his face impossibly close. Martín could see that his pupils were blown, nearly swallowed whole by blackness. "I've gone easy on you, Berrote. I’ve been <em>nice</em>. But not anymore.”</p><p>The hand in his hair tightened; Martín barely managed to stop himself from moaning. He couldn’t help it. The pain combined with the gravel of Fonollosa’s voice – roughened by rage, yet as smooth as silk – sparked something inside of him. It made him <em>weak</em>. </p><p>It was fucking pathetic, of course. There was no way Fonollosa would still be around if he knew what kind of effect he was having on Martín. That his bruising grip left him breathless, and craving for more.</p><p>That Martín was, against his better judgement, hard and straining inside his pants.</p><p>“You are worthless scum,” Fonollosa drawled, thankfully mistaking Martín's whimper for a sign of fear. Of submission. “I pity you, Berrote. No, that isn’t the right word. You <em>disgust</em> me.”</p><p>Martín's breath hitched inside his throat.</p><p>Something was fucking wrong with him. It had to be. Why else would Fonollosa’s words – drenched in hostility, as sharp as knives – make him want to drop to his knees? His hands were shaking with the urge to reach for Fonollosa’s belt, to open his fly and wrap his lips around his cock. </p><p>To earn his forgiveness, and prove his worth. </p><p>He wanted to show Fonollosa that he wasn’t useless. That he could please him. If Fonollosa just gave him a shot, Martín would make it so good for him. <em>He</em> would be so good for him. </p><p>The hand in his hair was gone as suddenly as it had come. Fonollosa staggered back, and Martín’s eyes flew up to find Sergio standing behind him, a murderous look on his face.</p><p>Martín should probably be glad that he had stepped in. Just a few seconds longer and he would have done something foolish. Like begging to be allowed to suck Fonollosa off. His dignity would have flown out the window, never to be seen again. </p><p>It was funny. His face was burning with shame, and yet he felt cold. <em>Bereft</em>.</p><p>“What do you think you’re doing?” Sergio demanded. There was a slight quiver in his voice, a simmer of frustration. He looked as irate as Martín had ever seen him. </p><p>"Martín is a valued member of staff, you can't treat him like that."</p><p>“He deserves to be punished,” Fonollosa snapped. The darkness in his eyes, half-crazed like a wild thing, made something inside Martín's chest squeeze. “They pulled my article, Sergio. Because Berrote here was spreading lies. He slandered my name, dragged it through the mud–”</p><p>“I only speeded things up a bit,” Martín defended himself. Or dug his own grave, depending on the point of view. “They would have pulled it anyway as soon as they’d taken a look at those monkey scribbles you call art – aaah, <em>hijo de puta</em>!”</p><p>He jumped back just in time to avoid Fonollosa’s hand shooting out to wrap around his throat.</p><p>“Andrés!” Sergio grabbed Fonollosa’s arm, looking every bit like a man who couldn’t reign in his feral dog. “A word. In my office, now. And Martín – you’ll call the journal and tell them you were wrong.”</p><p>“And why would I do that?” He asked, bringing up a hand to inspect his nails. He was hoping to come across as unfazed, poised. Like his heart wasn’t pounding inside his chest, like he wasn’t sporting a painful hard-on because one of his colleagues had shoved him against a wall and pulled at his hair. </p><p>“Because I am telling you to do it,” Sergio said, “and because I might not be around the next time Andrés decides to ambush you.”</p><p>Martín swallowed.</p><p>“<em>Vale</em>.”</p><p>As Martín watched the two men walk away, arguing like children, his head was reeling with the sudden and unwelcome realization that he <em>wanted</em> Fonollosa. </p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Prompt:</b> AU of the AU, where Fonollosa does get a bit too rough with Berrote (or maybe just rough enough ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) haha) and Martín just-- he can't help it. This time, he doesn't just get hard. He comes. He comes, and it's obvious that he did, and they both have to deal with the aftermath.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andrés had never been one to mince his words, especially not when it came to Berrote. </p><p>He told anyone who’d listen just how much he loathed Berrote. How unkempt his hair looked when he showed up to work in the morning (sometimes wearing the same clothes as the day before), how his shoes rarely matched his ties, how the chalk stains on his neck spoke of slovenliness.</p><p>Andrés had always thought himself rather witty. My, what a silver tongue he had, disparaging his enemies with just a few well-placed, ill-natured jabs. </p><p>But as it turned out, he couldn’t have been more wrong. </p><p>Because recent events had shown that - for some fucked-up reason - Berrote was getting off on being treated like shit. Who would have thought?<br/>
<br/>
Andrés still struggled to make sense of their last encounter. When he had grabbed Berrote’s hair and shoved him against the wall. When he had threatened him and called him scum.</p><p>When Berrote had come, like an inexperienced schoolboy, in his pants. </p><p>Back then, Andrés had been too shocked to react. And now he was paying the price. Maybe if he had been a bit quicker on his feet, if he had laughed in Berrote’s face and told him what a depraved little thing he was, maybe then things wouldn’t have escalated. </p><p>Maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.</p><p>Andrés reached for his Martini, taking a languid sip before popping the olive into his mouth. He had grabbed it on his way out of the fundraiser, making sure that Berrote saw. That was the whole point of his plan, after all. Berrote needed to believe that Andrés was drunk. Which had been harder than Andrés had initially thought, what with Berrote avoiding him like the plague. </p><p>Usually, Berrote would be insufferable during fundraisers. He cleaned up well enough to trick naïve donors into thinking him a capable professional. His smiles were bright, his brand of small talk insistent. For some reason, he’d made a habit out of showing up at Andrés’s side at the most unpropitious moments to steal potential donors away from him with mindless talk of astrophysics and <em> How would you like to go to space? </em></p><p>But ever since the incident in his office, Berrote had turned into a mouse. He was meek and shy, and anyone knew there was no fun in swatting at a defenseless little thing. Andrés needed him to fight back, to give as good as he got. He didn’t want… whatever this new version of him was supposed to be. The one who avoided Andrés at all cost, and who turned into a stammering mess whenever Andrés so much as looked his way. </p><p>Andrés hated it.</p><p>He couldn’t believe he was actually saying this, but he missed Berrote’s snark. He missed his hapless insults and his sharp bite.</p><p>Absurdly, he missed <em> Berrote</em>.</p><p>Andrés sighed, rubbing his temples as he read through the e-mail one more time. He had made sure to riddle it with spelling mistakes. He needed to sound drunk, after all. Like he had lost control. </p><p>Feeling satisfied with his work, he hit send and leaned back in his chair. </p><p>What was his dignity in the face of the greater good?</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t take long for Berrote to take the bait.</p><p>Andrés had been about to close his laptop and call it a day when he looked up to find Berrote standing in the door to his office. </p><p>As soon as their eyes met, Berrote offered him a small smile. A shy, almost boyish thing.</p><p>"Admiring the view?" Andrés teased. He wanted to provoke Berrote, to rile him up and draw him out.</p><p>But to his surprise Berrote merely chuckled. It took Andrés a moment to realize that it was lacking its usual hostility. Maybe that was why it sounded off. </p><p>"Did you have fun last night?" Berrote asked, stepping further into the room. He closed the door behind him. "I got your mail."</p><p>Andrés relaxed. </p><p>Berrote was returning to the script. That was good. It was <em> safe</em>. Now Andrés only had to play his part and their relationship would return to normal. To how it should be.</p><p>He arranged his features into a careful facsimile of confusion, knitting his brows and pursing his lips. But oh, he was a brilliant actor.</p><p>"I don't know what you're talking about."</p><p>Berrote’s grin widened.</p><p>"Yeah, I thought as much. It sounded like you had a lot to drink."</p><p>Andrés suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, and willed Berrote to move through his lines faster. If they could wrap this up in the next ten minutes, he'd still make it in time for his dinner with Tatiana.</p><p>"I am sorry for giving you a reason to drink," Berrote went on. "But you must know that if you had just said something, I would have gladly given you anything."</p><p>What?</p><p>Andrés frowned. Logically, he understood each of the words on their own. But strung together and coming from Berrote, they didn’t make sense.</p><p>This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Berrote should have barged into his office, brandishing Andrés’s faux-drunk e-mail like the severed head of his enemy. Right now, Berrote should be laughing in his face, telling him that he would <em> 'never spread my legs for you, Fonollosa. Not in a million years!</em>'.</p><p>He wasn’t supposed to smile and blush like a doe-eyed debutante, and—</p><p>—drop to his knees in front of Andrés. </p><p>Andrés sucked in a sharp breath, but Berrote mistook his shock for anticipation. For <em> desire</em>. His expression softened as he reached out to place his hands on Andrés’s legs, rubbing his palms up and down along the expanse of his thighs. His touch was scorching hot even through the fabric of his slacks.</p><p>"What do you think you're-"</p><p>Berrote shook his head. He still had that damned smile on his face, bashful yet confident. Andrés had never seen him like this. So open and vulnerable. The expression seemed out of place. Where was the scowl, the sneer, the <em> fire</em>?</p><p>"It's alright," Berrote said. "Let me take care of you."</p><p>Andrés was about to ask him what he meant, but then Berrote reached for the button on his fly and Andrés thought that he had a pretty good impression of what exactly Berrote was going to do.</p><p>This wasn’t what Andrés had planned, and it certainly wasn’t what he wanted.</p><p>He was stunned. </p><p>He was shocked.</p><p>He was also half-hard.</p><p>Berrote whimpered when he wrapped a hand around Andrés’s cock and pulled it out of his pants. He seemed pleased. As if he liked what he saw, how big and heavy Andrés felt in his hands. </p><p>"I can't stop thinking about you," Berrote said. He sounded almost feverish, his accent so thick the words were starting to blur together. “I’ve imagined this so many times. Putting my mouth on you, sucking you off. You don’t know how badly I need it, Andrés. Please let me. <em> Please</em>.”</p><p>Andrés couldn’t take it. Berrote was begging to suck his cock, and Andrés couldn’t listen to another word of it. He needed Berrote to shut up. <em> Now</em>.</p><p>He grabbed a fistful of Berrote’s hair and shoved him down toward his cock, groaning in sweet relief when he was finally engulfed in the wet heat of his mouth.</p><p>Berrote <em> moaned </em> and swirled his tongue around the head of Andrés’s cock. He looked like he was savoring the taste, like he was enjoying himself. As if he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but right here, on his knees for Andrés.</p><p>He looked as if this was enough.</p><p>Andrés closed his eyes, and tried to think of someone else. To imagine that it was a woman’s mouth giving him pleasure. That it was Tatiana or the pretty barista from his favorite café.</p><p>It didn’t work.</p><p>Berrote’s face was seared into his mind. </p><p>How obscene he looked with his gaze clouded by lust. The flushed cheeks, the swollen lips, stretched around Andrés’s cock. The spit dribbling down his chin. Berrote looked like a cheap whore, and Andrés knew that the image would stay with him, long after he’d sent Berrote away.</p><p>Andrés’s eyes blinked open on their own accord, meeting Berrote’s gaze, and Andrés couldn’t help it. He groaned. The sound slipped past his lips, unbidden, and Andrés wished that he could snatch it out of the air between them. To erase the evidence of his desire. </p><p>It only seemed to spur Berrote on. He moaned and doubled his efforts, taking Andrés’s cock further into his mouth until its head brushed against the back of his throat. Fuck.</p><p>Berrote drew back, letting Andrés’s cock slip out of his throat before taking him right back in, again and again and again. His mouth was burning hot, the pressure impossibly tight. </p><p>Andrés clenched his hands, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. He was fighting the urge to grab Berrote’s face and fuck his mouth until he was choking. Until tears were streaming down his cheeks, until he was begging for Andrés to stop. </p><p>Until Andrés had regained the upper hand. </p><p>But Berrote was already breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like he had just finished a marathon. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t even doing anything, nothing that would leave him light-headed and breathless, anyway. It was—</p><p>"Pathetic."</p><p>Andrés hadn’t meant to say it, but Berrote didn’t seem offended. He merely moaned and swallowed him down, the muscles of his throat constricting around Andrés’s cock. </p><p>Try as he might, Andrés couldn’t pretend that this wasn’t working for him. His nails were digging into the armrests of the chair now, grounding him. It would be so easy to reach out and fist his hands in Berrote’s hair, to push him down on his cock until he choked. </p><p>To make him <em> take it</em>. </p><p>But that would be giving in. It would be admitting that he wanted this.</p><p>He didn’t. </p><p>He wasn’t interested in men. </p><p>He wasn’t interested in <em> Berrote</em>.</p><p>Berrote hummed, pulling away to lick over the slit at the head of Andrés’s cock. Oh, that was <em> good</em>. Andrés was throbbing. He could feel the pleasure building up inside of him, getting stronger and stronger with each flick of Berrote’s tongue, until it became too much.</p><p>He pushed over the edge, hard and sudden. White flashed before him, blinding him as his orgasm coursed through his body. He couldn’t remember the last time it had been this good. This <em> powerful</em>. </p><p>It took him a moment to come down from his high. He took a few deep breaths, and counted to five. And then he opened his eyes. </p><p>Berrote was still there. Still on his knees, still staring up at him with an unreadable expression on his face.</p><p>And then he opened his mouth. Slowly, provocatively. He’d swallowed, Andrés realized, and he wanted him to see. He wanted Andrés to know. </p><p>Berrote didn’t say anything. He merely stared up at Andrés, almost expectantly. Like he was waiting for something...</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>That was fucking pathetic.</p><p>Andrés should throw him out, but something was holding him back. Instead, he reached out and placed his hand on Berrote’s head, weaving his fingers through the strands of hair. And then he <em>pulled</em>.</p><p>Berrote sucked in a sharp breath, caught somewhere between a pained gasp and a moan. His gaze became unfocussed, his eyelids fluttering shut as if it took too much effort to keep them open.</p><p>Andrés licked his lips, pausing, before finally giving Berrote what he wanted. What he <em> needed</em>.</p><p>"Well done, <em> Martín</em>," he said. "Such a good boy."</p><p>The reaction was immediate.</p><p>Berrote groaned and slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest on Andrés’s left thigh. He was boneless and pliant. </p><p><em> Spent</em>.</p><p>Andrés hadn’t even realized that he'd been touching himself. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe this was truly all he needed. To give up control and debase himself for someone else’s pleasure.</p><p>To let himself be used.</p><p>The thought stumped Andrés. It was so far removed from his own understanding of pleasure, aggressive and demanding. If Berrote were a woman, Andrés would think them well-matched.</p><p>And yet he had to admit that Berrote fascinated him. So much so that it took him a few seconds to realize that Berrote was talking to him.</p><p>No, not talking. <em> Babbling</em>. </p><p>"Thank you, Andrés. Thank you, thank you, thank you."</p><p>Berrote was beaming at him, his cheeks streaked with tears. Andrés leaned back in his chair and watched in silence as Berrote picked himself off the floor, as he smoothed down his hair and tried to straighten his clothes - to no avail. </p><p>Berrote looked <em> wrecked</em>, a debauched little thing, and something like pride swelled inside Andrés’s chest. He felt smug about sending Berrote out of his office looking like that. Anyone who saw him would know immediately that he had whored himself out to Andrés. Everyone would know what they had done. </p><p>Everyone would <em> know</em>.</p><p>And just like that the high from his orgasm ebbed away, leaving Andrés with nothing but the sinking realization that he had somehow managed fo fuck things up even more. </p><p>His plan had backfired. Spectacularly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>To:</b> Martín Berrote &lt;<span class="u">MBerrote@madrid-university.com</span>&gt; <br/><b>From:</b> Andrés de Fonollosa &lt;<span class="u">AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com</span>&gt; <br/><b>Subject:</b> (No Subject) <br/><b>Date:</b> 24.08.2019 / 01:21 </p><p>I cant forget what happemd between us. How desperate you lookdd when I pushed you against the wall. How you arched your back and how prettily you moaned when you came. Such a good little whore. I wanted to push you on your knees and feed you my cock until you choked. You would have let me,wouldn't you? You would have been good for me.</p><p>Such a good boy.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let me know what you think.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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